


We Can't All Be Hearths

by Emby_M



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Friends with Benefits or something more, Marriage Proposal, Ned is a Sap, Previous marriages, Serious Relationship Aversion, Snark, What Are We
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 16:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emby_M/pseuds/Emby_M
Summary: After a night together, Edward Kenway realizes that what he and Mary have is more than just the sex.Mary doesn't exactly take this well.





	

She is spent upon the bed. He only gives her a cursory glance, throwing half the blanket her way and slipping under the covers. They are equally covered in battle scars and love marks.

"Mary, what are we?"

Her voice is hesitant, still mostly asleep. "Ned?"

"We're nothing, really. And that makes sense to me, but it doesn't explain everything."

She turns onto her side, hearing the bedframe creak under them. Her eyelids are heavy. "What doesn't it explain?"

There is a moment of silence. It is uncertain if it's mourning something, or waiting for something to be birthed. "How I want to be with you. It's too strong of an infatuation -- ah fuck, infatuation ain't right. A love, Mary. Too strong of a love to not admit it's there."

She doesn't say anything, only turns her face into mattress.

"Mary, I've been running from being serious-"

"I know you have."

"- but I am serious about you. Tonight."

She stares at him, her gaze as even and steely as ever.

"Then be serious." She says, crossing her arm under her.

He collects his thoughts -- there are many, and they are slightly coddled by the tender embrace of drink, taking off their edges and his eloquence.

"When, when Caroline left, I was devastated. I understood why she left. She was with child, and I was at sea, and it got to be too much for her. But I had loved her so tenderly, so fully. And to have her leave, it left me feeling... lonesome."

She nods, closing her eyes. "I know the feeling."

"You've been married?" He turns his head, but not enough to actually look at her.

"Once. A Flemish sailor. He was killed soon after our wedding."

He is silent, and then quietly, says, "I'm sorry."

She sighs, pulling her knees into each other. "Continue."

"I... I remember her sometimes, in particular ways. She had lovely, reddish hair, and a wonderful smile. She was quicksilver and gold. She was much more the planner than I was. But distance only separated us. She became frustrated with me, although I can't blame her. I was a bit of a dreamer then."

She laughs, bare and breathy, "And you're not now?"

He does look at her then, a quick and even look in his eyes. "I'd like to think I'm less. I'm doing this, aren't I?"

"True." She looks away from him, and he looks back up to the ceiling.

"What was your husband like?"

She brushes her hand across the sheets. For inn sheets, they are quite nice; compared to the ones in his bedroom, they aren't.

"His name was Hans. Good for being a naval man, not exceptionally smart, but a problem solver. He was ... sweet."

"Sweeter than me?" He half-laughs.

"Yeah," She says, not a hint of joke to her voice. "It was a little tough to get him to like me; he thought I was a gent about half the time I knew him, but he warmed up real quick. He kissed me a lot. He liked to. He brought me little trinkets, even if they didn't mean much."

She stops speaking, but he nudges her knee with his knuckles. "How did he die?"

She turns onto her back, staring up at a small spot of discoloration that she figures he must be staring at too. "Drowned."

"Sorry."

She laughs, bitter and empty. "Didn't feel like taking on a new love for a long time after that. Wouldn't feel right. I did sleep around, but those were more cravings of the flesh than actual feelings. Still not sure how I feel."

He nods, slowly at first, and then vigorously enough to shake the bed.

"I haven't been able to either. Can't, really."

"Me and Anne?"

"Anne's a friend and an occasional fuck."

"Ah."

It takes a while before he speaks again; she refuses to say anything until he does.

"I am a wanderer. I am a romantic. I am a layabout and at times, I am a reveler. I am hedonistic and I am short-sighted but all the things I do, I do because I care about them. I want life to be easy but it never is and I am always disappointed."

"You wouldn't be disappointed if you'd join the Assassins."

"I might be. I never know what I want, really."

She sighs and turns away from him, and then back, and then towards him, and then back.

"You forgot that you're self-absorbed, and that you're vain, and that you only hear what you want to."

He laughs, "Yes. You've got me pinned there."

He reaches his hand under the sheets, turning his palm up. He wants to hold hands.

She does take his hand, weakly. Feels the callouses there.

"And you, Mary," which he says, much too tenderly, almost whispering her name, casing it in the softest laughter, and it makes her flinch.

"Me." She replies, looking up at the stain again, nothing in her voice.

"You are exciting. You love life. You are easygoing, a raucous drunk, and yet you sober up and you have every wit with you that I abandoned years ago. You're so young, yet wise. You are a leader, and a damned good one -- not to mention your seamanship! You are bright and grounded. You are dedicated to everything you do! I'd say you were a nag or that you were pushy or preachy but you're not, you really aren't, and don't believe me when I say it tomorrow. God knows I need your guidance."

She almost says something, but doesn't.

"You believe in me. You keep trying when I am a hopeless cause. It is admirable."

He takes her hand more fully, squeezing it tight. "You are beautiful as a lady and handsome as a gentleman, and you are, I think, one of the best things to happen to me."

The silence that grows around them is uncomfortable, like woolen underwear or new shoes.

"We're something, Mary."

She closes her eyes.

"I know."

"We can't pretend we're not."

"I know."

"You have to-"

"No." She interjects. Her tone is rough and trembling with the weight of every wrong choice and every comrade killed.

They sit again in the uncomfortable silence.

"Mary, I think I'm in love with you."

She laughs, harsh and bright and breaking like a fiddle's string when it's overtuned. "Magnificent joke, Kenway!" She almost yells, trying, desperately, to put some distance between them.

He turns onto his side, and waits until she looks at him. His eyes are steely and even, resolved as they have never been. Gone is any sign of drunkedness or lust or even anger. Instead, all that there is is just resolve. His face is in shadow, the sun-bleached color of his hair drowned out by the color of the flame. He places a hand on her cheek, running a calloused thumb over a small scar, almost hidden by her hairline.

Both of their stares break at the same time, and they turn over to face away from each other.

He leans up out of the sheets, sending a small waft of cold air onto her back, and blows out the candle, drenching them in the placid blue of night.

He resettles, though, and his back is broad and warm against hers -- the bed is not quite big enough to fully allow them to retreat.

He laughs, softly, and says "I wasn't quite drunk enough when I asked you to marry me."

"Enough?" She curls her hands in against her chest.

"To be talking nonsense."

Her brows knit. "What?"

"Never you mind," he says, but then takes a quick breath and continues on, "No, not never mind. There's only one person in existence I'd want to give the rest of my life to. And it's you, and I'm not joking."

She doesn't say anything, but she turns to lay against his back, her hand loosely fisted against a small knot of scar tissue on his shoulder-blade. He is warm, and she is cold and naked.

"You're like a small block of ice." He says, laughing.

"I know. We can't all be hearths like you."

He reaches his arm up and pulls her arm about his waist. "Any answer?"

She sighs and rests her forehead against his spine.

"I don't know if I want to be married again."

"If you'd be wanting to, I'd gladly be your husband." He says, masquerading his proposal as a hypothetical.

She doesn't speak for a while, but she knows that in that time, he doesn't fall asleep.

"Of all people, it would be you." She closes her eyes and lets the heat from his body float her away into sleep.

He smiles, giddy but tired, into his other palm.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is kind of old (I think I wrote it in 2014), but I happened upon it again and realized I loved it and Kiddway. Because why wouldn't I?  
> Kudos and comment if you're so inclined!


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